


Door to Door

by Jawsforsure



Series: London is a Lady [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, London, Post-Reichenbach, Return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:05:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jawsforsure/pseuds/Jawsforsure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ordinary day. An extraordinary day. An ordinary journey to work. An extraordinary collision.</p><p>A love letter to London: Sherlock's mistress and John's comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Door to Door

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of Sherlock, but I like to think I have a share in London. This is a small offering of my love for her.
> 
> This is an accurate description of one London hospital and its surrounding area, although I haven't mentioned it it's pretty easy to tell. I mean nothing derogatory towards it or its staff, and no political statement regarding recent changes to its structure. I just know it well as I study there.

John closed the door to his flat and stepped out into the street. It felt like an early summer's morning: the light quality, the air (balmy with an underlying chill), blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds and breezes frisking at his trouser legs. He smiled up at the sky, hands shoved into his pockets and whistling under his breath.  _It's got all the makings of a good day._ The morning light was just creeping over the roofs of the buildings and reflecting in the wet streets. 

The best gift Sherlock ( _always that pang, that ache under his ribs)_ was the ability to walk again, without a limp and free of the prison of a cane. And walking in London, especially on a day like this, was a joy and a delight. John could feel the reverberations of the old streets as he . He could feel the echoes through his calcaneus, his tarsals, the tips of his phalanges, history and ghosts and buildings long forgotten, pushing up through the pavement. It felt like being a giant, holding that knowledge and power close like a hot water-bottle. Like being king of the city, shaking the city with your steps. _(Is this what you felt like? When you strode in your black coat, me on your coat-tails?)_

 _  
_He rounded the corner into Margravine cemetery, the hospital looming over the still-leafless trees. He loved this cemetery, with its beautiful stone headstones and decades of love and affection spelled out. The two war memorials as well, with their constant plastic poppy wreaths and dedications to the brave and noble seemed to welcome him every time he passed. "You are in the company of brothers and sisters, comrade. You have seen what we have seen and you have returned in body as we have returned in spirit." On days like this, when it seemed like London was breathing deep, he thought he felt them, young men in helmets, smoking cigarettes next to the youths from the next door Sixth Form*, half a century between them and yet no distance at all. Of course, the graves inevitably brought his mind back to Mary.

Mary had slept well last night, they'd listened to the rain together, face to face under warm sheets. She'd still been asleep when he left, a smile on her face and the grey circles smoothed out. He'd filled a teapot and left it to warm, one of the soft unspoken ways of saying "I love you" that married people do: like putting his laundry into the basket immediately or holding her hair back  at 3am or making sure the morphine prescription never ran out. She'd be awake after his shift, they'd walk in the crisp evening to her favourite pizzeria and he'd make her laugh and she'd give him that look, the half-tender half-sad one, that meant "I wish I didn't have to leave you all alone". 

The hospital entrance was directly in front of the cemetery exit, he'd always idly wondered if this was done for convenience's sake or someone with a very macabre sense of humour. The funeral home on the other side of the hospital suggested more than unfortunate coincidence, and he didn't know where the morgue was in this hospital. He'd put it as a stipulation in his contract when he'd joined, that he would never visit the morgue and as such, would not learn the location. They'd been thrilled enough to find an Emergency Medicine registrar* that they'd agreed straight away, no questions asked. That was one of the reasons he'd moved hospitals, even moved to a different trust, so that he never had to be reminded, he'd never see Molly, or the morgue, or even the corner where...

It was just for the best.

Surprisingly, he still saw Stamford. He'd switched to teaching here, After. John had asked one day and Mike had been surprisingly serious, and explained that he had been the doctor assigned to treating Sherlock after his last overdose, and Sherlock had taken a liking to him. He hadn't wanted to stay at Barts any more than John had, so now he taught bright young things who adored him and worshipped the ground he walked on. John knew he would be teaching them the finer points of clinical examination this morning, like every Thursday morning, and he fully expected some to be in later, harassing his patients with youth's lack of delicacy. He pushed open the door to A&E*, sanitising his hands vigorously and calling out a friendly greeting to the receptionist. It was only early and flu season hadn't started so the department looked calm, but if anything of working in a war zone and living with Sherlock Holmes had taught him, things can change in a split second. And it's best to be prepared. 

* * *

 

Sherlock knew ( _observed_ ) it had rained overnight and stopped an hour and a half ago from the estimated depth of the puddles and the rate of water evaporation at seven degrees. But he wasn't interested in the weather, to the extent of cutting straight through the puddles, despite his shoes being less than fully waterproof. He'd all but run from the front door of his squalid ( _thankfully temporary_ _)_ flat, slowing to a fast stride after the first corner. Every time he crossed a street it felt like he was settling back into his old pace, that quick long-legged lope, rapid but unhurried ( _they would wait for_ him. _Even the serial killers would, most days, genius needs an audience after all.)_ He paused briefly, looking over his right shoulder, but. No. Of course. Not yet. Soon. He started again, head high and eyes front, taking in every sight and smell and sound. But it ached, like muscles long-dormant.  _I've forgotten how to walk in London, how to rule my kingdom. Too used to skulking in the shadows, like one of Moriarty's henchment, or Mycroft, even._ He snorted. Thankfully he'd avoided becoming like Mycroft, despite a year and a half working for him. He silently applauded John for choosing a part of London equally as far from Mycroft as Baker Street had been, even if it was far from Baker Street itself. This was closer to Hyde Park than Regent's Park, and closer to the Thames than either. Still, objectively he supposed it was pleasant enough, although the murder rate was far from ideal for his purpose.  _How quickly will John move back to Baker Street? His...wife owns the apartment, so he doesn't have any financial ties to it, but it would be disadvantageous for him to pay rent again. I suppose I can pay the whole rent with my allowance, Mycroft will certainly allow me._ _  
_

_I'll do anything if it means John comes back. Surely he will._

_  
_The miles were vanishing under his feet, as if London itself was pushing him on, urging him towards John again. The past year and a half had crawled by but he was nearly flying now, adrenaline singing in his veins like a particularly good hit. _Thrill of the chase again John, wouldn't you find it funny that for once it's you I'm chasing, instead of leaving behind?_  The Hammersmith flyover, traffic in what felt like a hundred different directions, all rushing past, he didn't want to wait for the cars to stop, he wanted to race past them, court death like he always did, besides if he was knocked down he'd be taken to his destination anyways...but it would be slower overall. Better to wait, just for a minute, inhale the car exhaust elixir and observe this person, that person, this adulterer, that petty thief, that mother worried for her child.  _So many people, so many problems, do you care about them all John? I think you do._ Thankfully past the intersections, one straight road to the hospital, should he run? Would John even be there yet? His shifts start at half eight so maybe, but maybe not. Would he be late still or was it just Sherlock's influence that made him so? Sherlock couldn't bear not knowing, even for the five or seven or ten or thirteen minutes until he could see John and  _observe_ him and  _know_ him again. Fast walk, past the bus stops and people walking to work and students toting coffee. If John was late he could get him coffee, John would want coffee. Or tea even, proper tea, milk and one sugar, just how John liked it. Round the corner, into the hospital. Through the front entrance? No, too many questions at A &E. He'd been to this hospital for a case before, he knows the way in: round to the student building, through the main entrance, past the Costa, wait for someone to open the door to A&E, smile at them and walk through, headed to the locker room. Simple. Now to wait.

* * *

John opened the door to the locker room and stopped dead, hand still on the doorknob. There, between the grey lockers and benches and under the fluorescent lighting, staring at one of the lockers ( _HIS locker, of course he would know which one was his)_ and turning at the sound of the door, long legs in tight jeans and wearing an unfamiliar ( _but still wildly stylish and expensive no doubt)_ trench coat, pale face with too-prominent cheekbones under a mop of closely cropped black curls, was the figure he'd seen in his dreams and nightmares the past year and a half. 

"John..."

The door shut behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Britishisms:
> 
> *Sixth Form: the last two years of secondary education, 11th and 12th grade in the US. Often separate from the rest of the secondary school, can offer academic courses and vocational ones.  
> *A&E: Accident&Emergency, aka the Emergency Room aka ED (Emergency Department) aka Casualty.  
> *Registrar: 2nd highest ranking of a doctor in the UK, it would be highly unlikely for John to be a consultant (highest ranking) as he's switched specialities and been out of clinical practice.


End file.
